Francisco found Grandma María in the kitchen, cooking the mid-day meal with several children underfoot. She looked a little overwhelmed but fortunately had help. When she saw Francisco she frowned with puzzled concern.
"What happened, niño? Are those two big babies fighting again? Do you want me to sort it out?" she asked, already ready to scold the irresponsible father in him.
"No, Grandma María. Can you sit with me in the parlor for a moment?" Francisco answered, serious and a little sad.
Her expression shifted to stunned curiosity, but she followed him. They sat on the sofa. Francisco began, "We just received a letter—from my mother's contact in the Holy Roman Empire. He says he can help me go to college."
For a moment it seemed the whole world landed on her shoulders. Grandma María had known Francisco wanted to study in Europe; she also knew Catalina wanted to go with him. Still, she had silently hoped the contact would refuse or that something would make the plan impossible. Now there was no escaping it. She grew dizzy.
Francisco, alarmed, called two servants. They helped his grandmother lie back on the sofa while he summoned the doctor. Catalina hurried in when she heard. Tears filled her eyes as she ran to Francisco.
"What's happened?" she asked.
"The letter from Prussia came," he said. "My grandfather has contacts in Hanover, so I told Grandma. She felt faint, so I called the doctor."
Catalina swayed, then hugged him. She didn't know what to say. The thought of a long absence in Europe—perhaps years—was more painful than she had imagined. They stayed like that in silence for a while, until Francisco finally spoke.
"Maybe it would be better if you stayed," he said, his voice heavy.
"No. I promised to go with you," Catalina replied, determination in her eyes.
"I understand you want to come," Francisco said gently, "but your grandmother is your only blood family. I don't want her to suffer and for you to end up resenting me if anything happens to her."
Catalina's tears spilled over; she couldn't reply. Then a stern voice came from the doorway.
"Young man, you aren't leaving my granddaughter alone, are you?"
Grandma María stood in the doorway, her face set. "She's willing to go half a world away with you, and you are rejecting her feelings? I love you as a grandson, but if you hurt her, I'll make you remember me."
Francisco and Catalina looked at her, shocked. "Grandma, are you all right?" they asked, and then hugged her. Her sternness softened when she saw them together.
"All right, I'm still young," she said with a small laugh. "I was just a bit shaken. In my day, even those who fell into a coma were expected to keep working." She chuckled at the memory.
Catalina's eyes were still wet. "Maybe it's better if I don't go," she said. "I don't want to leave you alone."
Seeing Francisco nod, Grandma María studied them both. "If you don't want to go, I'd be glad—but is that really what you want?" she asked Catalina.
Catalina couldn't meet her gaze. Grandma María sighed. "I know you weren't raised to accept being merely a servant's wife. You were raised in the Gómez house, where bloodline rules don't govern fate. I understand you want to control your destiny. College—or whatever they call it—might help you. I can only leave everything to God and pray you return safe with what you seek."
Catalina hugged her and wept.
Then Grandma María fixed Francisco with a solemn look. "I raised you—I know when you wet the bed, when you were afraid of the dark, when you begged to sleep with me, and when you smeared mud on the floor. If you hurt my granddaughter or let anyone else hurt her, I will make sure all of New Granada hears about it."
Francisco blushed. "I swear on my name I will never hurt Catalina or let anyone hurt her. If anything, it will be she who protects me," he said, bitter-sweet.
Catalina laughed through her tears. "Grandma, tell me those stories—about when he used to—" She smiled, eyes still rimmed red.
Francisco managed a smile too. "I'll leave you to spend time together. The journey from here to Göttingen is long, and the window is already closed—we'll have to wait until next March."
"March?" Grandma María repeated, surprised. "That's nine months."
Francisco's face tightened. Nine months wasn't much time. He had to put everything in order—the distillery and cement works, negotiations with the Álvarez and Lozano families, the children's lessons, payments for the road from the estate to the villa, and merchants to bring in immigrants. The list was a headache.
"Don't worry," Catalina said, seeing his distress. "I'll speak with your father about managing the businesses while we're away."
Francisco breathed easier. "Thanks. I'll talk to the workers and the mayor," he said.
A week later all of Antioquía knew: Francisco Gómez was going to Göttingen. Some were excited, some indifferent, and some furious—most notably a certain priest.
"That heretic boy, going to study in Hannover—those Protestant places, is an insult to Catholicism!" Esteban fumed.
The priests around him rolled their eyes. Most clergy were more practical than doctrinaire; status and influence mattered more than strict creeds. One priest, however, frowned. "I'm more concerned that so many high-class families want him to teach their children," he said.
"Why?" asked the priest beside him.
"Because it means in New Granada people are starting to crave practical knowledge. If that happens, our influence will decline unless we teach those skills ourselves," the priest replied.
Esteban jumped as if struck. "Absolutely not! That Protestant knowledge is of the devil. We can't let it poison our flock," he declared.
The others regarded him as an idiot—still, no one could easily confront the bishop's chosen fanatic. The bishop had placed Esteban in Antioquía because his zeal made him reliable; reliability, the church believed, would protect its interests.
"So what do we do?" a priest asked. "If we don't act, our influence over the young will diminish and other churches will step in."
"It doesn't matter. Just write to those families and warn them. If they don't comply, excommunicate them," said another priest.
"If you do that, the crown and the liberals will react. They won't stand for us trying to control Antioquía," someone warned.
"Then send our soldiers to silence the crown and the liberals. I've already said it: if we act weak, no one will respect us," Esteban snapped.
"We act weak because we are weak. Do you think this is the time of Gregory VII, when a priest could damn emperors with words?" another priest said, exhausted.
"Stop. We'll discuss this later. Esteban, stay," their leader ordered.
Everyone left with frustrated faces; only Esteban remained.
"Esteban," the leader said quietly, "the bishop is disappointed because of you and Ezequiel. He suspects the liberals may know. Even our man inside the liberals feels excluded. Our plans have come to nothing."
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know anyone was listening—I was just excited by the prospects. I'll find that innkeeper," Esteban said, hatred hard in his eyes.
"Stop. The bishop won't tolerate more messes. The viceroy is speaking secretly with nobles and the high families. Now is not the time for recklessness."
"So you're sending me to Casanare to reflect?" Esteban asked, aghast.
"It's temporary, for a couple of years, until things calm. They're afraid you'll sabotage our plans."
"All right. I'll obey," Esteban said through clenched teeth, and left with a resentful, unwilling glare that chilled the others.
The priest leader stayed behind and sighed. "I hope this is the right decision."